Get Up, Live, Repeat
by Mandelene
Summary: Depression is nothing like Amelia imagined it would be, and recovery isn't as easy as just telling herself to be happy again. In fact, she's convinced she'll never experience happiness again, until her parents decide to send her to her sister's ranch for the summer as part of her therapy. There, she learns that maybe there's more to life than its ugly parts.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This fic was requested by an anon on my Tumblr. If you would like to submit a request for a fic, you can find me on Tumblr under the same username (mandelene) and send the idea to my inbox!

 **Warning:** This story is going to deal with dark themes such as depression and suicidal thoughts (but there won't be anything graphic), so if any of this may be triggering for you, you may want to skip out on reading this story and maybe check out some of my other fics in the meantime. Of course, I will try to handle these themes with the respect and sensitivity they deserve, but if at _any_ point, anyone feels as though I'm misrepresenting something or being insensitive, please don't hesitate to leave a review or PM me about any concerns. My intention is not to glorify any of these themes, but only to raise awareness and hopefully to let readers who may be going through a tough time know that they are loved and that they are worthy of living happy, beautiful, and fulfilling lives. Also, please know that if you need help, there are support systems and resources you can always reach out to. I'm going to leave the number to the Crisis Hotline in the U.S. here: 1-800-273-8255.

Thank you and stay wonderful.

* * *

" _When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore." –Elizabeth Gilbert_

* * *

Amelia wakes up at noon on a Saturday and wonders why the alarm didn't go off. A minute of panic goes by, and then two, before she realizes that—thank God—it's the weekend.

But it doesn't feel like a weekend. If it's really the weekend, she should be out with friends. She should be doing things. Lots of things. Having a drink, partying, going out to the movies, meeting guys—all of the things that real people do.

Here's why that's not going to happen: she's not going to get out of bed until at least three o'clock in the afternoon, and that's if she's lucky. Until then, she's going to lie here under this mess of blankets and drift in and out of sleep while some nature channel on TV fills the apartment with white noise.

She should probably take out the trash and wash the dishes in the sink, or her roommate, Anya, will have another reason to yell at her. She also needs to shower, and change the sheets, and eat a real meal, and probably go outside for a reason other than errands or work, and be normal—for God's sake, Amelia, _why can't you just be normal?_

It's not the first time she's been unable to find the motivation to get up. She thinks it's just because she's lazy. It doesn't even cross her mind that something deeper might be going on—something more serious.

Among the many other things she tells herself are self-accusations like: _stop being dramatic, other people have it worse, you're ungrateful and spoiled, boo-hoo, what do you have to be sad about, get out of bed, you're a loser._

She doesn't think she's sad enough or worthy enough to give her feelings and thoughts a name. For a long time, she doesn't call them what they really are because she's ashamed.

But as much as she tries to convince herself otherwise, it gets to a point where she thinks she might finally know what this is, but she can't be sure, just like she can't be sure about anything else in her life.

Depression.

It's an ugly word—a word she tries not to think about too much because of all of the weight it carries.

No one tells you what depression is _really_ like. At least, no one told Amelia. You don't wake up one day, and boom, you're depressed. You don't have this big revelation. No one knocks at your door and asks you about it. Most people don't even notice, honestly. Sometimes, it comes and goes, but usually, it's somewhere nearby, lurking and waiting for a moment of weakness it can latch onto.

It starts off slow and innocent. It sneaks up on her.

It begins when she starts hitting the snooze button one too many times and ends up being late to work. The old Amelia would never have been late to work, but the new Amelia starts accepting lower standards over time. She rationalizes her poor decisions. For example, what's the point of being punctual to her miserable job filled with miserable people anyway?

She works as a barista at a coffee shop in the heart of Los Angeles' Financial District. It caters to big bankers and entrepreneurs from the upper echelons of society, and unsurprisingly, just being around such people proves to be toxic. She spends exactly eight and a half hours on her feet and always sees her least favorite customer, Lovino, exactly at nine in the morning. He's infamous for having meltdowns when Amelia gives him one shot of espresso instead of two, or, god forbid, adds eleven millimeters of skim milk to his cup instead of ten.

Once she's been late a few times and has been reprimanded by her manager, her whole routine begins to take its toll on her. Monday through Friday, she gets up for work, showers, makes her bed, eats breakfast, brushes her teeth, and deals with horrible customers for the majority of her waking life. All that for just thirteen bucks an hour. She can barely afford to split the rent with Anya anymore. Back when she only worked part-time and was still in school, things were a bit easier because she was in the dorms and her parents would cover a lot of her finances, but then…

She dropped out of college during her last semester because she couldn't show up to lecture, and when she had to explain to Dad and Papa why she wasn't going to class when they were spending thousands of dollars on her education, what was she supposed to say? "Hey, sorry, guys, but I just couldn't get up out of bed?" They'd laugh and then cry, surely.

Dad's an emergency medicine doctor and Papa's a chef who owns his own restaurant in Manhattan. How is she supposed to compete with that?

She was studying computer science for three and a half years before she asked herself why the hell she was studying computer science in the first place, to which she didn't have an answer. Maybe it was because she had to major in something to feel like there was a sense of purpose in her life. Needless to say, it was a mistake.

The worst part of her depression kicks in around thoughts like these—or more specifically when she starts comparing herself to other people. Her twin sister, Maddie, for example, already has a husband, Gilbert Beilschmidt, and he's a lawyer—the definition of a man with a successful and practical career. Maddie works as a high school French teacher, but when she isn't doing that, she's a professional barrel racer—you know, horses and cool stuff that Amelia can hardly wrap her head around. She has her own ranch with actual freaking horses on a beautiful plot of land in Pennsylvania. What a life!

And what does Amelia have? Absolutely nothing. She's stuck brewing coffee. She's an embarrassment to her well-established family—a smear on their picturesque lives.

Next, little offhand thoughts begin popping up in her mind like, _"Wow, I fucking suck,"_ and _"I just make other people's lives more difficult and cause them problems,"_ and then, the worst one of all, _"Well, if my life stays this shitty, I can always just kill myself."_

She tells herself she's joking about that last one.

Her life becomes a cycle of going to work, coming home, and not knowing how to find anything positive anymore. She just attracts negativity, and her brain becomes addicted to it. Tell her the weather is nice and she'll think about how global warming is going to eventually wipe out the human race and how everyone is going to die someday.

Negative, negative, negative. It becomes a habit.

 _All anyone ever does is spend their life chasing money to support themselves. People suffer and die every day, and it isn't fair. Life is ugly. Brutal. Humans are awful creatures. Why shower when she's just going to have to do it again tomorrow? Why eat when groceries cost money that she doesn't have?_

 _No, you can't ask Dad and Papa for help because they've already sacrificed enough for you and you're a burden, Amelia. You ask for too much. You expect the world, but the world owes you nothing. You did this to yourself. You're useless. You're a disappointment._

She doesn't deserve her parents' love, but even now, they worry about her. Dad called not too long ago and left her this voicemail when she didn't pick up:

 _"Amelia? It's Dad. I'm calling to check in on you. You haven't spoken to Papa or me in over two weeks. Please, just let us know you're all right, and remember that should you ever want to come home for any reason, you're always welcome here. I love you…Talk soon."_

That was on Wednesday—three days ago. She still hasn't responded—doesn't know what to say. Dad and Papa have been trying to get her to move back in with them for months now. They're in New York—all the way across the country—and though Amelia knows she should accept their generous offer, she can't. She doesn't want to bother them, and besides, they'll end up treating her like she's fragile.

She's been staying in this small apartment with Anya ever since she dropped out.

"It stinks in here. Did someone die?" Anya asks her later that day. "Are you okay?"

She's still in bed.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Anya doesn't know her well enough to feel comfortable prying, so she just frowns and walks away.

Twenty-three-years-old and she's already broken beyond repair, and it feels like with each passing day, she's falling farther and farther down.

Dad calls again that night.

Again, she doesn't pick up—too disgusted with herself to even listen to her own voice.

* * *

On Monday, she calls out sick. She wants to get out the door but can't. She knows this might sound silly to some people. After all, why can't she just pull herself together and go to work? What's so hard about that?

Amelia's not sure.

You can't explain depression to people. They'll just say to get over it or be happy, as though there's some kind of quick fix, but you wouldn't tell someone to just "get over" their diabetes or cancer, and you can't tell someone to get over their depression either.

 _Why are you depressed?_

That's a question she asks herself a lot, and she's sure it's a question lots of people would want the answer to. Of course, she doesn't have a response because she honestly doesn't know. It's a lot of things. There are reasons she hasn't acknowledged yet. It's personal—too personal for her to confront herself at the moment.

Does she have to justify why she feels the way she does? Does it matter?

But it's not the sadness that overwhelms her—it's how _tired_ she is. She's tired of living. So tired. And she can't imagine ever not being tired again.

So, she spends her Monday the same way she spent her weekend—in bed.

Except, this time, a scary thought crosses her mind—a scarier one than all of the previous ones…

 _I wish I could fall asleep and never wake up._

This is the thought that breaks her. She curls her knees up to her chest and feels tears stream down her face. When she closes her eyes, she hears her brain saying what a failure she is. She didn't study enough. She surrounds herself with the wrong people. She doesn't have any goals. She has thrown her life away. Her parents don't love her—they pity her.

No. That final one isn't true. Her parents have always loved her to a fault, and she never appreciated that love, which is how she stupidly managed to cast them aside.

She's lazy, untalented, loud-mouthed, annoying, and who would ever want to willingly be in her presence? She's a leech—always feeding off of someone else and inconveniencing them.

 _The world would be a better place without me._

Her phone vibrates.

Dad.

He would be devastated if something ever happened to her—she knows that. She can't put him through that kind of pain. As much as she hates herself, she loves Dad, Papa, and Maddie too much to cause them grief and suffering, but she doesn't know how to get out of this hole she's dug herself into.

Her phone keeps going.

 _Bzzt…Bzzt…Bzzt…_

Finally, with shaking hands, she picks up.

"Hello? Amelia? Are you there?"

Dad's voice…She has missed it so much. She misses the days when she could turn to her parents for everything and never had to worry about a thing because she knew they would take care of it. There was always someone for her to look up to.

"I'm here," she replies, breath hitching.

"Oh, I'm so relieved that—are you crying? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"What for?"

"Everything."

"…Amelia, don't say that."

Does he know?

Of course, he knows. There isn't much that Dad doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't realize the extent of what's going on here, but he must be piecing it together now.

"Dad, I'm so sorry."

"Darling, please, don't apologize," Dad says, and the calmness of his tone makes everything seem less daunting and insurmountable. "What's going on? Talk to me."

"I'm in a bad place, Dad," she tells him, and saying all of this aloud is draining. She sniffles and wipes her face, trying to keep it together. "A really bad place."

"…It's all right. I'm here now. You can tell me anything. I'm so happy you picked up the phone. I know it must have taken a great deal of courage," Dad whispers. He _knows._ God, why does he have to know? "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"…I'm going to ask you a question that I know you don't want to be asked, but you don't have to be afraid of giving me an honest response. I want the truth, all right?"

"Dad…"

"Are you having suicidal thoughts?"

"Y-Yes."

Suddenly, everything seems real. Her depression wasn't a concrete, actual thing until now. She's crying so hard that her eyes burn and her head feels like it might explode. The air becomes heavy and suffocating. She waits for Dad to yell or cry, but he doesn't.

He stays miraculously composed and tranquil. "Do you feel like hurting yourself?"

"No, I'm…God, I just…Fuck, it's so stupid. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, and it's not stupid…Is there someone with you?"

"No, Anya left for work."

"Do you have a friend you can ask to stay with you for a few hours?"

Amelia scoffs. "What friends?"

"In that case, and I know you're not going to like this, but I think you should go to the hospital—for your own safety."

"No, I'm not sick," Amelia protests, muffling a sob into her pillow. This is so dumb. Why did she pick up the phone?

"Amelia, my dear, please…I'm going to find the earliest flight I can get to Los Angeles, but I likely won't be there until tomorrow, and therefore, I need to ensure you'll be all right until then."

"No, you don't have to come here. I just had a moment of weakness. I'll be fine. Really, Dad."

"I know I can't make this decision for you, but seeking help is nothing to fear or be ashamed of. There are professionals at the hospital who will be able to help you. If you're evaluated and told you can go home, then that's wonderful, and I'll be there as soon as I can, but if it's determined that you would benefit from being hospitalized for a little while, and you voluntarily agree to it, you'll feel better and will have the ability to leave whenever you wish. All I would then ask of you is that you stay there overnight. I can pick you up afterward."

She hates herself for being this weak.

"Please, love. I only want to help. I understand you're in a very difficult position at the moment. I wouldn't suggest this if I didn't think—"

"Okay," Amelia agrees, cutting him off. "I'll go."

Dad lets out a sigh of relief. "I'm so proud of you. I know this isn't at all easy. I'll stay on the phone with you until you get there, okay?"

"Okay," Amelia shakily replies, nodding even though she knows Dad can't see her.

At long last, she gets out of bed.

"I'm really scared."

"I know, but you're not alone. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere until you're in good hands. Let me know the address of the hospital you're going to once you've decided on one."

"Okay…Promise me you'll come alone? I-I don't want Papa to worry, and I'm not ready…"

"I understand. I promise."

"I should shower before I go. I'm gross."

"Don't worry about that at the moment."

She hasn't talked this much in a long time, but it feels good. Actually, maybe not good, but better. She trusts Dad, and if he thinks this'll help, then she'll do it.

She needs someone right now, anyone.

* * *

Once Amelia walks into the hospital, and Arthur is certain she's out of any immediate danger, he tells her he loves her and that she'll be okay one last time before ending the call.

While he may seem calm and collected on the outside, he's on the cusp of having a heart attack on the inside from the amount of worry in his chest.

"Arthur? Were you just on the phone with Amelia? What's wrong?"

He swipes a hand over his stinging eyes and struggles to lift his head up to look at Francis. He has to tell him the truth. "I need to get to Los Angeles as soon as possible."

Francis frowns, forehead creasing. "Did something happen? Is Amelia all right? _Mon amour_ , are you crying?"

Arthur sighs. He can allow himself to feel now that he's no longer on the phone. "Everything is under control, but Amelia's in the hospital."

Here comes the panic.

"What? Why?"

"She's…She's been having suicidal thoughts."

Francis covers his eyes with his hand and pales. "Please don't tell me she's hurt."

"She's fine. I persuaded her to go to an emergency room to be evaluated."

"I'll start looking for a flight."

"Wait, Francis," Arthur stops him by blocking the doorway of their bedroom. "There's more, but I'd like you to promise me you won't take this personally and that you'll be understanding about it."

"I don't like where this is going…But all right."

Arthur takes his hand and squeezes it. "She wants me to come alone. She said she's not ready to see anyone else at the moment."

"She doesn't want me there? I'm her father, too, in case it's slipped your mind!"

"She's overwhelmed," Arthur tries to explain. "The fewer visitors, the better. Please, don't be upset."

"I'm not upset," Francis assures, but it's clear this is a lie. "I'm very worried about her."

"As am I."

"Bring her home."

"I will."

"In that case, let me start helping you pack."

* * *

In medicine, there's a procedure for everything, which means there's a right and wrong way to do things. Amelia has witnessed this firsthand from the handful of times Dad has jumped in during an emergency—like when Maddie was nine and had a severe allergic reaction to a bee sting while playing in the park.

She has seen the switch flip in his eyes. He can, somehow, in a moment of chaos, let go of all emotion. When Maddie was sitting there, on that park bench, struggling to breathe, she stopped being his daughter for just a moment. She became a patient, and patients are all treated the same, no matter who they are. It's always the same procedure.

Amelia thinks about this as she walks into the ER and tells the triage nurse she's having suicidal thoughts. There isn't any fanfare. The nurse doesn't frown, comment, or do anything that might suggest she is capable of empathy. She just follows the procedure she's been trained to follow. She takes Amelia's vitals, checks her height and weight, gets a hospital bracelet on her wrist, and has her wait for a doctor. A security guard sits with her to make sure she doesn't try injuring herself at any point.

And when a doctor appears to evaluate her, he knows the procedure, too. He stands at the other end of the room and goes through a bunch of questions with her, and the whole time, he's stone-faced. Is this what textbooks and medical journals say to do when someone's suicidal? Act like a robot? She's pretty sure the staff would be speaking to her differently if she came in with chest pain or a cough.

Maybe they're afraid of upsetting her, but don't they realize that what's really upsetting is how detached everyone is? Why can't someone just tell her it's going to be okay? Why can't they talk to her like she's a normal human being?

 _How long have you been having suicidal thoughts?  
Did you have a plan?  
Do you still feel like hurting yourself right now?_

Those initial questions are eerily similar to the ones Dad asked her over the phone. Like everyone else, it appears as though he was just following procedure as well.

 _Are you on any medications for depression?  
Have you previously had suicidal thoughts or attempted suicide?  
Did something trigger you to feel this way today?  
_ _Do you have a history of depression or mental illness in your family?  
_ _Have you ever spoken to a counselor or therapist?_

And once the doctor has checked enough boxes in her chart, he has her go through the usual protocol of having her get a blood and urine sample taken. Then, he comes back an hour later to ask if she would accept treatment and agree to be hospitalized.

Remembering the instructions Dad gave her over the phone, she readily agrees.

In-patient treatment isn't glamorous, wild, or anything like it's portrayed in the movies she's watched. It's monotonous and clinical. She gets her phone taken away along with her keys, watch, and any other items the nurse deems she might be able to use to harm herself. The nurse does a lot of talking and explaining, and then, a psychiatrist comes to speak with Amelia. She is encouraged to participate in the group activities on the unit, but she's honestly not ready to take that step.

She doesn't feel better, but she doesn't feel worse either. She's safe though, and that's what Dad wanted.

Vitals, meds, group activity, meal, group activity, snack, group activity, free-time, and then, lights out. That's how the day goes.

Almost everyone around her seems to be sicker than she is, and so communicating with any of the other patients proves to be almost impossible.

She wants to leave.

* * *

Arthur hates flying. Sitting in the most uncomfortable chair known to mankind for six hours straight is not his cup of tea. It also doesn't help that his back has decided to start causing him trouble lately. He's aging against his will.

But none of that matters. Amelia is his priority, and if that means he's going to have to be downing painkillers this entire trip just to walk upright when he's on solid ground again, so be it. According to the last text he received from her yesterday evening, she was admitted for treatment after all. This means she doesn't have her phone on her anymore, and so, Arthur finds himself growing increasingly anxious with each passing hour. He no longer knows what kind of state she's in.

He stares at his watch and wishes time would move faster. He'll feel much better once he sees Amelia is safe and in one piece.

His plan is to pick her up once she's discharged and to get on a flight back to New York with her tomorrow. But what if she doesn't want to come with him? He can't leave her in California. The stress and constant anxiety of not having her nearby will destroy him.

When he lands, he gets a taxi to the hospital and is forced to bring his luggage with him. Fortunately, he packed light despite the fact that Francis kept trying to convince him to do otherwise. All he has is a backpack filled with his most essential medical supplies and a small suitcase on wheels that contains a change of clothes, his phone charger, and basic toiletries.

There's traffic on the way from the airport to the hospital, of course. When _isn't_ there traffic in Los Angeles? Then again, he can't say New York is much better in that regard.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, he finally gets to his destination. After going through security in the lobby and getting granted a visitor's pass, he heads up to the psych unit, bracing himself for the worst.

He talks to one of the nurses on the floor, and she has him sit in a little common room. He waits about fifteen minutes, and then, he sees Amelia tiptoeing toward him. She's thinner than he remembers, and her hair is longer, but otherwise, she's the same Amelia he has raised and loved.

He doesn't say anything at first—just tosses his arms around her for a hug and presses her head against his shoulder so he can take in everything about her that he has missed. She's here and she's unharmed.

He has never felt so relieved in his entire life.

She's alive. He almost _lost_ her. The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

He can feel her ribs poking out through her shirt, and her eyes are rimmed with dark purple bags, but he can also feel the thrum of her heart against his chest as he holds her close.

"How are you feeling?" he asks before immediately regretting it. What kind of question is that? Obviously, she feels awful.

"I don't want to stay here," she mumbles into his shoulder.

"I know…You can request to be discharged now, if you're ready, that is."

"Yeah, I already brought it up with the nurse because I figured you'd be here soon. Just waiting to talk to the psychiatrist so I can be cleared by her first…Thanks for coming."

"Don't thank me…It's my job to be here."

She strains a weak smile and keeps hugging him, not willing to let go just yet. "I missed you."

"I missed you as well. A great deal, in fact."

"Is Papa okay?"

"He's fine, but he's awfully worried about you."

"And Maddie? Does she know?"

"I spoke to her last night. She asked that you call her as soon as you feel comfortable enough to talk."

Amelia starts to cry again, and Arthur is overcome with worry once more. He rubs her back and keeps his hold on her, but he doesn't speak. Something tells him she wants him to be silent.

"I'm a mess," Amelia mutters after wiping wearily at her face.

"Shh, no, you're not."

"I want to come home."

Well, that certainly makes matters much simpler.

"Okay. We'll get on a plane first thing in the morning. For now, let's find out where that psychiatrist is and get you discharged."

* * *

She feels like a little kid again, but that turns out to be a good thing. Dad takes the reigns and brings things under control so she doesn't have to. He talks to her doctor and nurse about outpatient services she should explore and what the next course of action should be in ensuring this doesn't happen again, and when he walks out of the hospital with her, she holds him by the arm and lets herself be fussed over. She hasn't been treated this kindly in a long time.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"Not really."

"Did you have lunch on the unit?"

She didn't. It was offered to her, but she didn't have an appetite—still doesn't. That said, that's one thing she doesn't want Dad fretting over, and so, she muddles the truth. "Yeah."

She can tell he doesn't believe her. She's never been a very good liar.

But, surprisingly, he doesn't press her on it. "Okay, so then where are we off to?"

"The apartment, I guess. I should—uhh—start getting my stuff ready for tomorrow…I texted Anya that you were coming, so it shouldn't be a problem. I hope you don't mind sleeping on the couch."

"That's fine."

"Okay, cool…I'm really sorry again about this, Dad. It's—"

"For the last time, don't apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. Can we walk from here or do we need to get a cab?"

"It's a ten-minute walk, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

* * *

She hopes Anya cleaned up the living room and did the dishes yesterday. Although she knows Dad won't really care about the state of the apartment at this point, she still wants to prove she doesn't always live like a slob. She can't let him see her bedroom, that's for certain.

Anya's still at work, so at least they'll have a couple of hours to themselves, but Amelia hasn't decided if that's a good or bad thing. Honestly, she feels awkward. What is someone supposed to talk about with their father after they've been having suicidal thoughts? They can't just put this behind them. Dad's going to talk about it with her in greater detail eventually.

At any rate, it doesn't appear as though he's interested in having that conversation now, which is a relief. He's acting pretty normal about this, all things considered.

He doesn't make any comments about the apartment once they're inside and taking off their shoes. She offers to take Dad's bags and his coat, but he brushes off all of her attempts at hosting him and insists on helping himself. She'd offer him tea, but only Anya drinks tea around here, and she's not sure if her roommate would be happy if she took some of hers without asking. Anya can be unpredictable, and so, Amelia would rather not take any chances.

Dad gets himself settled in and gets straight down to the business of helping Amelia pack her bags. She can't take everything with her—just the important stuff. It's not like she has that many possessions anyway with how frugally she's been living. A small budget doesn't leave room for luxuries.

And after the bulk of her junk has been packed up, she gets herself to shower. It feels incredible to be clean again, and this is the most productive she's been in weeks. The best part, however, is the solace that comes with knowing she gets to quit her job and never return. Even if she comes back to L.A., she's never stepping foot in that coffee shop ever again.

Shortly after her shower, Anya returns, and she's the definition of polite when she sees Dad. It's odd—Amelia's never seen her act this nice. Not that she never acts nice—she just usually keeps her distance, is all.

"It's so nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Dad says, introducing himself just as politely and eloquently.

How do they do it? Amelia can't do anything remotely graceful or adult-like.

But, it seems Amelia hasn't fully stepped into an alternate reality because, in typical Anya fashion, her roommate doesn't say much. She makes some short small talk and heads back to her own room, shutting herself away yet again. In all of the time Amelia has lived here, she doesn't think she's gotten to know Anya enough to even tell someone how she takes her coffee or what she likes to do for fun. They have always co-existed together in parallel planes—never intersecting. They're in their own separate realms of loneliness, and that's been their mutual arrangement.

"She seems nice," Dad says quietly once Anya is out of earshot.

"Yeah," Amelia agrees because it seems like the right thing to do.

"We should order something for dinner. It's getting quite late."

"Sure. What do you want?"

"Whatever you'd like."

Amelia rolls her eyes, and suddenly, for just a split second, it feels like nothing has changed and she never left her parents' home. The gentle bickering is familiar and comforting. "I asked you first."

"And I assured you that I don't have a preference."

"Okay, Thai, it is."

* * *

When the food arrives, they eat in silence. She can feel Dad glancing over at her plate every few minutes or so, and it's because she's picking at her fish. She knows she needs to eat and function and be normal, but she can't. Things aren't normal. She just got out of the hospital, and everything is going to be different now. Dad's not going to trust her. He's not going to look at her the same way again, and neither will Papa and Maddie. She will be seen as a hazard to herself. Worse, they're going to feel sorry for her, and that's the last thing she wants.

Again, that voice in the back of her mind jeers, _"You did this to yourself."_

Her heart gallops with anxiety, and a moment later, she's setting her plate aside and has to run to the kitchen sink to be sick because she can't make it to the bathroom.

Dad comes up behind her and holds her hair back.

"Shit, I'm sorry," she rasps when she's done. Thank God Anya washed the dishes after all, which makes this situation partially less degrading. "I-I have to clean this up and—"

"No, you're going to lie down. I'll handle this," Dad insists, steering her into her bedroom, which, by the way, still looks like a tornado blasted through it.

Back in bed again. Now she's going to have to fight herself to get out of it once more after her stomach calms.

Dad goes off to disinfect the sink with bleach, and Amelia burrows underneath her blankets and pillows in shame. She's not sure how long she stays like that, but she doesn't get pulled out of her stupor of self-hatred until she feels a hand rubbing her shoulder.

"You're going to get through this," Dad says. "One step at a time."

She doesn't believe him.

* * *

A change of scenery might be good. Anything beats being in this apartment.

So, when morning comes, Amelia feels inspired enough by this glimmer of hope that she's able to get dressed, have some cereal, and double-check to make sure she has everything she intends to bring with her to New York. She's up and ready to go around eight o'clock, which she considers a personal victory. Dad's awake at the crack of dawn, but that's because he was jetlagged last night and was passed out on the couch by nine.

All that's left is to say goodbye to Anya, and well, it's not a tearful goodbye by any means, but Amelia finds herself being bummed anyway because although they've always been aloof around each other, Anya put up with a lot of her crap over these last months.

"I hope everything works out for you," she tells Anya, genuine as can be. "Thanks for not kicking me out three months ago."

Anya smiles dryly at her. "Thanks. Take care of yourself, and…stay in touch, okay?"

She's probably saying that just to be nice. Amelia can't imagine why the girl would actually want to stay in touch with her.

"Sure thing…"

"I mean it," Anya adds, looking very serious for a second before she turns to Dad and shakes his hand. "And it was nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland. Have a safe flight."

"Thank you, and I apologize for the intrusion. Take care," Dad replies without missing a beat, and then, that's that.

Amelia's still reeling from Anya's farewell when they get into yet another cab. Maybe she will give her a call someday…If she can find the strength, that is.

She doesn't say much to Dad during the drive to the airport, and he doesn't try to initiate a conversation with her either. She can tell he's trying to give her some space, and so, while he's texting Papa and reading up on the news on his phone, Amelia shuts her eyes and tries to relax, letting the sounds of the road and the car soothe her.

It isn't until the driver goes over a pothole that she's shaken out of the serenity. The cab jostles, and they all get thrown from side to side a little bit. The driver apologizes, and it doesn't seem like it should be a big deal, but Dad suddenly hisses and snaps his eyes shut, looking pained.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

He nods and tries to quickly reassure her that it's nothing, but his shoulders are tense and his teeth are clenched.

"What was that all about?" she asks, not letting him off the hook so easily.

"Nothing you need to trouble yourself with. I'm merely old, and my back is giving out," he jokes darkly.

Amelia scoffs. Dad's middle-aged but has a habit of acting like he's ready for retirement. "You're not old yet, but you should have said something sooner. I wouldn't have made you sleep on the couch if I knew."

"As I said, it's nothing to trouble yourself with," Dad repeats.

It's actually kind of a relief to be able to talk about someone else's problems for once, and Amelia wants to take the opportunity to divert the attention from herself for a little while. "Did you do something to mess it up?"

"I have a suspicion it has something to do with how I helped two paramedics lift a patient off of a stretcher a few weeks ago, but I can't be certain."

"You should probably get that checked out."

Dad rolls his eyes and absently rubs a hand over his lower back. "I'll be fine."

"Are you gonna be okay on the flight?"

"Yes, of course."

"Does Papa know?"

"You're full of questions today, aren't you?" Dad asks a little tiredly, but there isn't any bite in his words.

"I'll assume that means no."

"Are _you_ going to be okay on the flight?" he asks her instead, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah," she says with a weary smile of her own. Then, she throws Dad's words back at him, _"It's nothing to trouble yourself with."_

He chuckles. "All right, you've made your point."

"If I have to talk about my issues with you, you have to talk about yours with me."

"That's not how this works, and I didn't agree to such rules."

"Well, those are the rules now," Amelia decides.

Dad sighs but doesn't try to argue, probably because they've finally made it to the airport and his mind is already on other matters. He pays the driver, climbs out of the cab, and takes both his and Amelia's bags, which is too much for one person to carry, especially for a person who was just complaining about their bad back.

"See? This is why you're in pain. I'm capable of carrying my own stuff," Amelia scolds him, trying to snatch her carry-on and suitcase out of his grasp. "I'm an independent woman who doesn't need a man taking my things. Let go."

Reluctantly, he lets her help, and that's a sign that he's really not feeling too great. Normally, they'd have to argue for at least another ten minutes before coming to an agreement. Amelia's worried, even though she knows Dad can, in theory, take care of himself. He should know better than to be straining himself.

Whatever—if he wants to be stubborn about it, so be it. Amelia will be there to tell him off when the time is right.

For now, they get through TSA and successfully find their seats on the plane. She's got the window seat, and so, Dad's the only one sitting next to her, which is a good thing because the number one thing she hates about being on planes is when she gets smooshed in between two people.

"Is Papa going to pick us up when we land?" she asks.

"Yes, is that all right?"

She has missed Papa and wants to see him, but she doesn't want him to overreact and start smothering her, which he's been renowned for doing in the past. Dad can worry too much as well, but he decidedly has a milder approach to these types of situations.

"Yeah, that's fine."

She daydreams for a bit and listens to some music, and then, the sleepiness caused by waking up early for the first time in ages catches up with her. She tells herself she's just going to rest her eyes for a few minutes, but she very quickly ends up dozing off instead. She wakes up at some point and notices her glasses are on the brink of falling off her nose and that her head is leaning against Dad's shoulder.

Before she can lift an arm, Dad takes her glasses off, looks at her half-open eyes, and murmurs, "Go back to sleep. We have three hours left."

Now that she's getting farther and farther away from California, she's suddenly aware of how the loneliness of these past months has been exhausting. She's unused to being around anybody for longer intervals of time, family or not. Even if it's just Dad, him being here is an abrupt reminder that her life is not as empty and devoid of company as it has recently felt.

She, quite literally, has a shoulder to lean on.

* * *

"Amelia!" Papa exclaims as soon as he sees her, and she's trapped in another hug. "My goodness, you're skin and bones! How did—?"

He stops because Dad shakes his head and sends him a look that clearly means, " _don't bring anything up."_

So Papa puts on his best smile and says, "It's been too long since you've visited us. It's good to have you home."

Which sounds a lot to Amelia like, _"We're happy we can keep an eye on you so you won't think about killing yourself again."_

She knows that's not what Papa means, but her depression tells her that's what he means.

Though she was starting to feel a little more optimistic this morning, all of that changes as soon as she's back in her old bedroom in her parents' house. She goes to bed early and ends up stuck in the same cycle she was in back in LA. She won't get up, won't eat, and can't think of a single non-destructive or non-negative thought.

Papa and Dad give her a couple of days before intervening in the hopes that she'll feel better with some time to settle in, but that doesn't work. Amelia is right back to not functioning.

One night, Papa loses it. She applauds him for keeping calm this long.

When he sees that she isn't eating any of her dinner, he asks her to at least give it a try.

To which she habitually replies, "Not hungry."

And Papa, in all of his worry, snaps. "Don't you see you're killing yourself? Why are you doing this? You need to eat and stop lying in bed! Stop moping around!"

If only he knew this is the same lecture she gives herself every day.

"Francis!" Dad shouts, standing up from the kitchen table. "Enough. Getting frustrated isn't going to—"

Before he can finish, Papa buries his face in his hands and ends up in tears. He mumbles an apology and storms away, and Dad is left frozen in place, not sure whether he should go off to console him or stay with Amelia.

He stays with her.

"Don't take any of that to heart. He didn't mean to lose his temper. He's concerned, that's all."

"No, it's okay. I know I'm hard to deal with. I know he doesn't understand why I won't just start acting normal again," Amelia whispers, and everything hurts—her whole body. It's a burning feeling, and it races from her chest to her toes and her head. "What he said was true."

"Amelia…This is a difficult time for all of us and—"

" _All_ of us? Right. I'm the problem in the family now, and I'm upsetting everyone. I'm so sorry my depression is inconveniencing you guys."

"That's not what I meant. You're putting words in my mouth. You're not inconveniencing anyone."

"I can always count on you to lie to me to make me feel better, Dad," Amelia scoffs, and it hurts to talk to him in this way, but she can't stop. The depression has fully rooted itself and taken hold of every part of her.

"Trying to pick a fight with me in the hopes that I'll walk away, too, is not going to work. We're a family, and that means we're not going to leave you to deal with this alone."

No, he's not supposed to say that. He's supposed to be angry and prove to her that she's a lost cause.

She purses her lips and tries to hold back tears of her own. "I'm not worth it. I'm not worth the trouble it'll take to save me."

"Don't you _ever_ say that again, am I clear? I won't tolerate it. If anything ever happened to you, I would never be able to forgive myself, and neither would your papa. We love you, and we're going to do whatever it takes to get you the help you need, and that starts with finding you a good team of mental health professionals and a support system beyond just your papa and myself."

This ends up being the tipping point. Dad goes off to talk to Papa, and Amelia stays at the table a few minutes longer, chin lowered as she stares at her full plate of food with contempt. She doesn't know it then, but the next few weeks are going to consist of a series of appointments with a psychiatrist and a therapist. She will be frustrated, more with herself than anyone else. She will try to push everyone away—try and fail, and then try again.

She'll get prescribed an antidepressant by her psychiatrist in the form of an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor), and although she'll get the prescription filled, she won't actually take the pills. She just lets the bottle get dusty on her nightstand.

But she will finally call Madeline—have a ten-minute talk with her that ends up being awkward and uncomfortable for both of them because Maddie feels the need to tread on eggshells with her, and Amelia has forgotten what it's like to talk about something that isn't depressing.

Her parents, meanwhile, still search for solutions—grasping at straws to get the "old" Amelia back.

* * *

Around four weeks into her therapy sessions, her therapist has her sit down together with Dad and Papa for a session. They talk about the usual stuff—how things are going at home, how Amelia's doing with meeting her short-term goals, what steps they're taking to help her get back to having a normal routine, and how she can start to eat without feeling anxious or immediately wanting to throw up. The fact is, she hasn't made that much progress.

Somewhere in that conversation, an idea strikes Dad.

"How about you stay with your sister for a few weeks?" he suggests.

Amelia's therapist immediately jumps on board and says how great she thinks it would be for her to see Maddie. Of course, they'll still have their bi-weekly therapy sessions, except they would be over the phone rather than in person. She also says Maddie and her husband are an integral part of her support system, and so, spending some time with them could be a good thing.

"I don't know…It's been a while," Amelia responds, not as thrilled.

"Give it some thought," Papa encourages. He's been uncharacteristically meek around her since his outburst, and it's driving her insane.

"Okay, fine, I'll think about it."

Three days later, she finds herself packing her things once more and sitting in the back of Dad and Papa's car for the two-hour drive from New York to Quakertown, Pennsylvania. It's the heart of July, and so, the area is stunningly beautiful and rustic. There are valleys of green everywhere she turns, and she has to wonder why she hasn't moved to a place like this already.

"Almost there," Papa says, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

She imagines herself running through the tall grass and basking in the sunshine, and it's the first happy thought she's had in a month.

She doesn't think she'll be going back to New York anytime soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for the support you guys sent me for the first chapter! It's looking like this is going to be a three-shot or four-shot because I've barely scratched the surface of what I want to do with it, so expect to see more updates soon! After this chapter, I'll be focusing more on Madeline and Amelia's relationship, so that'll be coming up later. For now, brace yourself for some Dr. Kirkland.

If you can, please leave a review to let me know how I'm doing! I appreciate any and all feedback. :)

* * *

It's like stepping on another planet.

Amelia has been in the city so long she has forgotten what silence is like. When she climbs out of the car and onto the gravel path leading up to Maddie's house, a sense of serenity washes over her, and she feels like she's a million miles away from Los Angeles and New York. For once, no one's in a rush. No sirens, no shouting, no traffic…It's peaceful.

She can see why people choose to go on nature retreats or buy themselves cabins in the middle of nowhere—there's a sense of liberation you can feel out here that you just can't get when you're on a stuffy train or weaving through clusters of people on a busy city street.

Past the landscape of greenery lies Madeline and Gilbert's two-story house. The stone-veneer siding and bay windows give Amelia the urge to sit down by a fireplace with a cup of hot chocolate despite the sizzling heat outside.

When Maddie and Gilbert come out to greet them, Amelia has to widen her eyes in awe when she sees how great her sister looks. There's a rosy glow to her cheeks, and her blonde hair spirals down her right shoulder in a French braid. She's the picture of health and happiness—the exact opposite of Amelia's state.

She can't help but feel envious.

Papa is the first one to say hello. He shakes Gilbert's hand and gives him a hug before turning to Madeline and kissing her cheek. He speaks to her enthusiastically in French, and Amelia doesn't understand everything, but she does know that Papa mentions something about how wonderful she looks. It seems like everyone's having a great time except Amelia.

Scratch that. Maybe not everyone.

She looks to her left and sees that Dad is still sitting in the passenger's seat. The car door is open, but he's hunched over and can't seem to get up. She catches him discreetly trying to rub his lower back again.

She sighs at him and leans down to talk to him, keeping her voice low so the others don't overhear. "You okay? When are you finally going to admit that you need to see a doctor?"

Naturally, he evades her questions and murmurs, "Would you mind giving me a hand?"

She quickly grabs his left hand to pull him up and uses her other arm to support him around his waist as he staggers to a standing position.

"Thank you, love."

"No problem. Now, can you finally talk to a specialist about this?"

"It won't do me any good."

"Why do you say that?"

"I've already diagnosed myself."

In Dad's eyes, there's nothing more horrible than a doctor having to go to _another_ doctor for medical help. It's a matter of pride.

Amelia makes sure to direct a firm glare at him in disapproval. "You know you're not supposed to do that. You need a second opinion. You can't always cure yourself."

"It's only a herniated disc."

"And what's the treatment for that?"

Dad glances at the others to make sure they're still out of earshot and mumbles, "MRI to confirm, bed rest, and then physical therapy for a number of weeks. In rare cases, surgery may be necessary."

"It's been over a month, and you haven't gotten yourself an MRI, you haven't rested, and you haven't tried physical therapy. How do you expect to get better?" Amelia lectures him, and it's ironic how the tables have turned. She doesn't understand how he can be such a competent doctor, but when it comes to his own health, he's clueless.

By now, Maddie and Gilbert are finished greeting Papa and are heading over toward them next. Amelia lets her arm fall away from Dad's waist, and he's able to stay upright for now. There's a copious amount of sweat beading on his brow, and Amelia doesn't think it's from the heat.

"Is everything okay?" Madeline asks, smiling at both of them before she hugs them tightly. "It's good to see you two! Amelia, how are you feeling?"

"I've been better, but you know—one day at a time," Amelia assures her before diverting the attention elsewhere. She really doesn't want to talk about herself at the moment, and thankfully, she doesn't have to because Dad starts talking to Maddie about her seasonal allergies, which gives her an opening to break away from the hug.

A hand plops itself onto her head and tousles her hair like she's a little kid—it's Gilbert. He's wearing a pearly grin, and he hasn't changed a bit since Amelia last saw him. Being his sister-in-law means she has to put up with his teasing every now and then.

"Hey, Gil. How's it going?"

"Awesome, as always! How about you? Are you okay, all things considered?" he asks.

"I'm hanging in there," she replies, and that seems to be a good enough response. She's glad no one's trying to get her to elaborate. She's almost positive Dad called them beforehand and gave them a long talk about not pressuring her into sharing anything she's not comfortable discussing. Hopefully, this means they won't directly ask her about her situation.

Speaking of Dad, she turns around to see how he's doing, and though he steps forward to shake Gilbert's hand and tries to act like he's fine, he's quite pale, and he looks like he might lose his balance and topple over at any given moment.

Papa places a cautious hand on his shoulder and asks, "Are you feeling ill, _mon cher_?"

This has gone on for long enough. Amelia knows from whom she gets her coping mechanisms now. She, too, has a tendency to deny there's an issue when she needs help, and, in that way, she can sympathize with her father. That said, someone needs to bully him into resting before he ends up needing an ambulance. God knows how far the nearest hospital is.

He was there for her, and now it's time to return the favor, even if he's not going to be pleased with it.

"Papa, there's something you need to know. Dad's back has been hurting him for well over a month now, and he refuses to get help. He can barely move," she explains, pretending not to see the sour look on Dad's face.

Papa clicks his tongue and whacks Dad's shoulder lightly. "Is that true? Why didn't you say anything? We have a long drive home tonight, and how do you think you're going to sit through it in this state?"

Dad takes a few more steps forward and growls, "I'm fine," but it's clear by his gait and the way he's limping that he's worse for wear. He's favoring his left side, but when Gilbert holds out his arm to help him into the house, he dismisses the offer and stalks away.

"I'll talk to him, don't you girls worry," Papa promises, and both he and Gilbert dare to go after him while Madeline and Amelia stay behind.

"I see Dad's being his usual self," Maddie nervously jokes. "In the meantime, why don't I give you a tour? We can go to the stable, and I can introduce you to the horses."

Amelia lets out a heavy breath and nods. "Sure, sounds good."

* * *

"These are my babies. Kuma's a little shy around new people, but maybe he'll let you pet him."

Kumajirou, one of Madeline's two prized horses, is a proud and regal white gelding. He's a bit intimidating, and seeing as Amelia hasn't been this close to a horse since she was little, venturing to touch him is admittedly pretty scary. She extends a hand to him, but he swiftly rears back and huffs indignantly, as if to say that she hasn't earned the right to touch him yet.

"Sorry about that," Maddie apologizes. "Kuma, be nice. This is my sister, Amelia, and she's going to be staying with us for a while, so you have to get used to her, okay?"

But Kuma doesn't seem interested in anything Madeline has to say and decides to chew on some oats instead.

Maddie's other horse, Maple, seems friendlier. She's an American paint horse that looks exactly as her name suggests—the golden splotches on her coat make it look like someone drizzled maple syrup over her. She whinnies at Amelia and allows her to pet her forehead and mane, even going as far as to lean into her touch.

"She already loves you," Madeline notes before giving Maple a pat of approval. "Wanna try riding her?"

"No way, sis. I've been in the city my whole life, remember?"

"Come on, I'll help you. You can take her for a stroll."

Amelia's not too sure about this, but she doesn't want to rain on Madeline's parade this early into her stay, so she follows her and Maple into the round pen designed for riding the horses. Her heart races as they walk through the wooden gate. Is it true that horses can sense when you're nervous or afraid? Will Maple lash out at her because she's so uneasy?

Maddie tells her to put a foot in one of the stirrups and to try to pull herself into the saddle.

Easier said than done.

She slips on the first try, but then Maddie gives her a helpful push, and she succeeds on the next try without cracking her skull. It's a lot higher up than she thought it would be! Jeez!

"All right, now hang on tight, okay? I'll guide Maple for you, so all you need to do is make sure you stay in the saddle."

"Got it."

Maple follows Maddie's lead into a slow trot, and they go around the perimeter of the pen a few times.

"I feel so powerful and aristocratic up here," Amelia jokes. "I wanna order some people around to do my bidding, you know?"

Maddie giggles and says, "If you feel powerful now, try barrel racing. That's when the real rush sets in."

"I think that's a _little_ too advanced for me."

"I've tried to make Gilbert do it, and he's getting better…You okay? Not so scary now, right?"

"Yeah, I'm good!"

Maddie grins. "Good."

"All right, I think I want to see your skills now," Amelia says, gesturing her head toward the white barrels scattered around the pen.

Madeline obliges and carefully helps Amelia out of the saddle and back onto the ground before climbing up onto Maple herself. "I usually compete with Kuma because I've been training with him longer, but I can do it with Maple, too. I'll show you it with Kuma next time…You ready?"

Amelia exits through the gate so she can be on the other side of the fence and out of harm's way before saying, "Ready as I'll ever be. Go for it!"

Without further ado, Maple storms off at a dizzying pace toward one of the barrels, and Madeline maneuvers her around it with practiced elegance and speed. It's like they're dancing, and Madeline is the choreographer, measuring out every twist and turn with precision. She uses Maple's momentum to her advantage and just seems to know at exactly which second she should get Maple to turn around the barrel. It's mesmerizing to watch, and Maddie looks completely at ease and in her element, bouncing up and down in sync with Maple's movements.

When they come to a halt, Maple kicks up a cloud of dirt, and Amelia smiles up at them, impressed.

"How do you do it?" she asks. Maddie is supposed to be the shy one. How is it that she can get up on a horse and look like she's on top of the world?

Madeline pants a little to catch her breath and shrugs her shoulders. "With lots of practice. Don't worry, I'll get you racing soon enough, too."

"Oh, no. I'm good, really."

They both laugh, and Amelia follows Madeline as she takes Maple back to the stable, still wonderstruck and smiling.

* * *

"Maybe if we put a pillow under his legs, it'll help with the pain. That's what Maddie did when she sprained a muscle in her back last year after one of her competitions," Gilbert says as he and Francis try to get Arthur in bed without putting him through excruciating pain.

"If you would both stop crowding around me, I'd feel much better," Arthur snarls, swatting their hands away. He lowers himself onto the queen-sized bed in one of the guestrooms and wedges an extra pillow under his head and another one under his calves to relieve some of the pressure on his spine.

"Now what?" Francis asks Gilbert, and Arthur is quite insulted that he's pointedly being left out of the discussion.

Being coddled like this is maddening!

"Hand me my bag," he instructs the two of them, and fortunately, they listen.

He takes his backpack from Francis and digs around the middle pocket to get one of the hot packs he brought with him for a situation like this. When he finds it, he squeezes it to activate the warming gel and kneads it a few times to distribute the heat throughout it evenly, and then, he holds it against the sore spot in his lumbar spine. It helps alleviate some of the pain, but not much.

"I know an orthopedist who's a twenty-minute drive away from here. Maybe going to him would be a good idea," Gilbert suggests.

Francis frowns. "But how are we going to get Arthur into the car?"

"The doctor might be willing to make a house call."

Arthur sits up quickly and shouts, "No, absolutely not!"

It's not his brightest idea because, a second later, a jolt of pain flares up in his back and travels down the length of his right leg, all the way down to his toes. Damn. Sciatica—a new symptom that means this is getting worse.

He should get an MRI, except he needs a referral for that, which means, unfortunately, that he has to see a doctor, since he's not allowed to refer himself. Even so, he's not likely to get said MRI done until next week. He may as well wait to see an orthopedist in New York.

But…This pain is getting quite unbearable, and short of going to a hospital, his only hope for relief would be to see someone about it now so he could at least get prescribed some stronger pain medication.

"I'll walk to the car," he decides as he takes some more ibuprofen. He's at the maximum dosage now.

"Are you sure?" Francis asks.

"Yes."

Gilbert whips out his cellphone and says, "I'll call the office and see if they can fit you in for today."

When Gilbert steps out into the hallway, Francis steadies a pitying look at Arthur and cards a hand through his sweaty hair. "Is this what you wanted? To worry me to no end? I've had enough to worry about lately."

He leans down to peck Arthur's nose with a kiss, and Arthur promptly responds by growling at him again, furious at the situation he's found himself in.

"It's going to be okay, _mon cher_. We'll see what the doctor says."

"I can tell you what he'll say."

"Arthur, just once, let someone else help."

Gilbert returns with good news (or bad news, in Arthur's opinion)—the orthopedist can see him today, but they need to leave immediately.

So, Arthur tries to lug himself out of bed with Gilbert and Francis's support, and they escort him to the car without injuring him further, miraculously.

"Gilbert, would you mind coming with us? I'd like to have an extra pair of hands around," Francis requests, and when Arthur opens his mouth to protest, Francis shushes him and adds, "Not another word out of you, _mon amour_."

Gilbert nods. "Sure! I just need to let Maddie know. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Arthur sighs. Why couldn't they allow him to suffer in the comfort of the guestroom with that hot compress and a good book?

* * *

"Hey, honeybun? I'm helping to take your dad to a doctor. I'll be back later."

They're closing up the stable when Gilbert approaches them, and Amelia feels both a flutter of worry and triumph in her chest at the news. How did they get him to agree to seek help? He must be in really bad shape.

"I'm going, too," she says, because it's not every day she gets to see Dad on the receiving end of some doctoring, and it's bound to be entertaining. "Someone needs to keep him from biting anyone's head off."

Maddie snickers in agreement. "If you're all going, so am I. It'll be like a mini family road trip."

Gilbert shrugs his shoulders, not opposed to the extra company, but Dad isn't as nonchalant about it.

As soon as he sees them hopping into the backseats, he furrows his brows and shouts, "No, I'm not having all of you go with me! Girls, go back to the house."

"Sorry, no can do," Amelia says, grinning from ear-to-ear at him. "There's _no_ way I'm missing this."

"You can't tell us what to do anymore," Maddie chimes in.

Dad crosses his arms over his chest and grumbles, "Belligerent children."

How can Amelia not be in a good mood now? She considers clearing up some storage space on her phone so she can record everything, but she ultimately decides she'll spare Dad the humiliation this time. As amusing as this is, he's in real pain, and so, she still has sympathy for him.

Dad has the silly misconception that they're going to wait in the car for him when they get there, or, at the very least, that'll they'll sit in the waiting area. So, when he gets called into one of the exam rooms at the doctor's office and turns around to see they're all padding after him, he groans.

But really, what's family for if not to embarrass you every now and then?

And so, all five of them head into the exam room, much to Dad's chagrin.

"My sincerest apologies," he tells the medical assistant, Linda, as she's changing the paper on the exam table. "I don't know what's gotten into them today."

Linda smiles and says, "What a beautiful family. You're very lucky, Mr. Kirkland. Now, if you could just stand on the scale so I can—"

"That won't be necessary. I have a herniated disc and merely need a referral for an MRI."

Amelia rolls her eyes and knows she has to come to Linda's aid. "Don't make her job more difficult, Dad."

"If you're good, we'll take you out for ice cream later," Gilbert adds, unable to stop himself from poking fun at him just a little.

"But only if you're on your best behavior," Amelia continues.

Dad looks like he's just taken a bite out of a lemon, but he's outnumbered, so he surrenders and finally lets his height and weight be recorded. He impatiently stands on the scale and acts as though he's being held hostage.

"Okay," Linda says when she's done. "You can have a seat."

He makes a show of sitting down without Papa or Gilbert's help, and then, Linda announces, "I'm just going to take your vitals."

Dad is _seething._

Amelia has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. She's never seen someone look so appalled at the idea of having their temperature and blood pressure taken. It's official—Dad is the worst patient ever.

Fortunately, Linda seems like she's fairly experienced and has dealt with horrible patients like him before. She sticks a thermometer in his mouth and wraps a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm without leaving room for protest. Nonetheless, Amelia still genuinely fears for the poor woman's safety.

"97.5 degrees Fahrenheit. Normal," Linda says cheerfully when she takes the thermometer back. Her glee only manages to irritate Dad further. "Your blood pressure is high—140 over 90. Do you have a history of hypertension?"

"No," Dad says, tight-lipped.

"I think he's just stressed," Papa explains.

She writes something in his file and says, "Okay, the doctor will see you shortly."

When she leaves, Amelia, Maddie, Gilbert, and Papa all fall victim to a contagious fit of snickers at Dad's expense. Needless to say, he isn't amused.

 _This was so worth it,_ Amelia thinks.

The doctor knocks on the door and comes in a minute later. He's around the same age as Dad, perhaps a little older, and when he takes note of how many people are in the room, he smiles and says, "The whole gang's here, huh? That's great."

He shakes Dad's hand, and before he can even ask him what's wrong, Dad says, "I have a herniated disc along with sciatica in my right leg. I'd like to be referred for an MRI."

The doctor tilts his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess, you're either a physical therapist, doctor, or RN. Which one is it?"

"Emergency medicine doctor," Amelia supplies helpfully because the odds of Dad answering are slim to none.

"I see…The worst of the worst," the doctor jokes harmlessly. "Well, then, Dr. Kirkland, I have to examine you to make sure this warrants an MRI if we both want to avoid problems with the insurance company, so I'm going to have to ask you to bear with me for a couple of minutes. How long have you had pain now?"

"Seven weeks," Dad says, having the sense to at least sound a bit ashamed for not getting help sooner.

"Have you been doing any heavy lifting? Probably at work, huh?"

"That's correct."

"Where's the pain exactly?"

"Where you'd expect it to be—the lumbosacral joint, between L5 and S1."

The doctor pulls Dad's shirt up to expose his lower back, and when he presses a hand to the spot, Dad jumps.

"Yup, looks suspicious. Lie back."

Dad lies down with a small sigh of relief, as sitting up for too long seems to be difficult for him. Papa crosses the room to stand by his head and be closer to him, hoping to act as a source of comfort, but here's the thing about Dad—he hates being comforted.

"We're gonna do a leg raise test, okay? Lift your right leg up as far as you can," the doctor instructs, bracing Dad's foot and calf so he can guide him along. "Stop me when it hurts."

They all look on with growing curiosity, and then, Dad suddenly groans.

"There," he says, eyes screwed shut.

"Uh-huh," the doctor agrees before cheekily informing him, "You've got a herniated disc. Who would've thought? It's pushing up against a nerve, which is what's causing the pain down your right leg, but you already knew that, too. Where do you want to have the MRI done so I can place the order?"

"In New York," Dad says, sitting up slowly and taking an index card out of his pocket that has an address scribbled on it. He's prepared.

The doctor takes the card, types something into the computer in the room, and says, "Okay, it's done, but you'll have to wait a few days for the insurance company to approve it. They'll call you…Don't get up yet. I'll give you a steroid injection to bring the inflammation and pain down."

Dad nods, finally satisfied, and lies down again, except this time, he turns onto his stomach.

The doctor looks up at the rest of their gang and warns, "If any of you folks are needle phobic, you should head out now. This can look a little distressing. It's nothing like a flu shot."

"Francis, that means you," Dad urges, and though Papa looks like he wants to stay, he obediently exits along with Gilbert—they're both chickens when it comes to this stuff.

"I'll stay," Amelia tells Maddie because she knows her sister would probably prefer to wait outside, too. "Make sure Papa and Gilbert don't cause any trouble out there."

Maddie nods gratefully and slips away.

"The one brave soul remains," the doctor commends Amelia as he's gathering his supplies.

Dad rolls his head to the side to look at her and smirks, "You've seen worse, Amelia, haven't you?"

"Yeah, actually. I've seen you in action too many times, and now I'm just as jaded and desensitized as you are," she jokes, but she feels a pang of fear on Dad's behalf when she sees the size of the needle the doctor is prepping. "Uhh, is that gonna hurt?"

"A little, but probably not as much as that herniated disc is hurting," the doctor reassures her. "It'll help in the long-run."

"Okay…Want me to hold your hand, Dad?"

As expected, Dad shakes his head. "I'm all right, love. Thank you."

"Okay, well, I'm gonna hold it anyway," Amelia says with what she hopes is a soothing tone. She knows Dad is an expert in this and can probably handle it, but she's never had a needle put in her back, and she imagines it can't be a pleasant sensation, no matter how high someone's pain tolerance is. So, she grips Dad's right hand in her own, if only to calm herself, and watches with apprehension as the doctor sterilizes a patch of skin on Dad's lower back.

"You're going to feel a sting and some burning. Sorry in advance," the doctor says, and then, he's inserting the needle, and Amelia has to make a face because it looks like it goes in deep.

She feels Dad shudder, and he squeezes her hand, so maybe it's a good thing she's holding it after all. Since he's not in a position to argue, she dares to set her other hand on his shoulder, and it seems to relax him a little.

The doctor unscrews the syringe once it's empty so that only the needle is left behind, and then, he attaches a new syringe filled with different medication to the needle and pushes that solution in as well, causing Dad to flinch again.

"I'm sorry. Almost done," the doctor promises, switching syringes for a third and final time.

Now Amelia understands why he said this is nothing like a flu shot. It must hurt like hell.

"It's okay," she says softly when she feels Dad squeeze her hand again, and now she feels bad for teasing him earlier.

Then, it's finally over, and Dad's allowed to sit up. She lets go of his hand and inwardly vows that she'll never allow herself to get a herniated disc because that looked awful!

"It's not going to feel better right away. Give it a day or two to work. Take it easy for forty-eight hours, and then, you want to start working on increasing your range of motion. I'd suggest physical therapy, but I know you're not going to bother. You know what to do. Try some exercises and stretches at home, at the very least. It's better if you do it with someone," the doctor explains as he's cleaning up.

"Wait," Amelia interjects. "He's not getting a sticker and a lollipop? What a dud."

That makes Dad snort with laughter, which was her goal. "I think I'll manage, poppet."

"No, you're right," the doctor replies, rummaging through some drawers before finding the stash of goodies. He pulls out a cherry lollipop and a sticker in the shape of a star that says, _STAR PATIENT._ "Here you are—for being brave," he grins, handing them over to Dad.

Dad chuckles and dryly murmurs, "Thank you. This is just what I needed."

"Can I have the lollipop?" Amelia asks.

"Be my guest."

* * *

" _Please, just spend the night and call out sick tomorrow."_

" _She's right, Arthur, you're in no condition to work. We can leave tomorrow morning, after you've had a good night's rest."_

" _I'm fine."_

 _"That's what you always say, mon_ cher _, and we both know it's not true."_

Maddie and Papa are fighting with Dad, and if they think they're going to win like this, they're mistaken. Getting Dad to listen takes a more cunning strategy.

So, she steps into the guest bedroom and decides to show them how it's done. "Sorry, guys. Can I talk to Dad alone for a second?"

They all assume it must be something serious. Maddie and Papa leave without another word, and they shut the door behind them.

"What is it, love? Are you feeling unwell again? Having dark thoughts? Maybe you should consider taking the medication you—" he cuts himself off because, as he worriedly tries to sit up, he causes himself a great deal of pain again.

She notices the warm compress peeking out from under his back and asks, "Any better?"

"A bit," Dad says, but he's probably lying. "We're talking about you now. What's going on?"

"I'm feeling kind of nervous about having to stay here with Maddie and Gilbert," she tells him, which is true, but also misleading because of her ulterior motives.

"There's nothing to be nervous about, but if for any reason, you don't feel comfortable, your papa or I will be here to pick you up. At least try to make it through the week, okay?"

"Okay," Amelia murmurs, and here's where she has to stretch the truth. "But…I was hoping maybe you and papa could stay a little longer."

"I wish I could, but I have work in the morning, and your papa and I really should get going within the hour."

"Please?" Amelia asks, mustering some tears. If Dad has one weakness, it's the sight of tears.

"W-Well, I suppose I could call out," Dad wearily concedes, wincing a little as he shifts in bed and dislodges his compress.

Amelia puts it back in place for him. "Would you?"

"All right."

She tries not to look _too_ victorious. "Thank you."

She gives him a quick hug, minding his injury. Then, she saunters out of the room. When she runs into Papa in the hallway, she meets his intrigued gaze and says plainly, "He's staying. You're welcome."

* * *

Nights are the worst.

There's nothing to distract her when everyone's asleep. It's just her and her thoughts, and they're vicious thoughts.

 _Madeline and Gilbert are gonna get sick of you. You're complicating their lives. You're a bad person._

She rolls out of bed and hopes a walk down to the kitchen will help. Downing a glass of warm milk makes her feel less hollow, but it does nothing to calm the panicky nausea in her stomach.

 _You're a burden. You're not doing anything productive. You're never going to get better._

Time to sit out on the porch and get some fresh air.

She opens the front door and immediately notices that it's significantly cooler outside now compared to when the sun was still up. She should've brought a sweater…

Suddenly, there's a flash of movement to her left, and she sees a shadowy figure standing a few feet away, smoking a cigarette.

She screams, caught off guard, and the other person lets out a startled noise as well.

" _Bloody_ hell."

Well, that sure doesn't sound like a serial killer. She's in the clear.

"Dad, what are you doing out here? And why did I have to run into you of all people? I've seen enough of you today."

"I could ask you the same question, and what's that supposed to mean?" he huffs, flicking some ash off the end of his cigarette.

"Since when do you smoke?"

"I don't. I quit long before you were born."

"So, what's that in your hand?"

"A cigarette."

"Exactly. I rest my case," she says, rubbing a hand over her arm. The breeze is giving her goosebumps.

"It's chilly out. You should go inside."

"I'll be fine."

Dad scoffs. "Very well, but when you wake up with a cold, I don't want to hear about it."

"Okay," she agrees, fully knowing he's bluffing anyway. All it takes is one sneeze for him to go into mother hen mode. "Shouldn't you be resting in bed?"

"Yes, and so should you."

"What can I say? I'm a rebel and an insomniac like you."

"Something every father wants to hear," he remarks, full of sarcasm even at this time of night. He coughs a little and gestures to the cigarette. "This isn't nearly as enjoyable as it used to be."

"Doctors shouldn't smoke, you know. It sets a bad example."

"Well, it's a good thing I don't smoke, then."

He can be so…so…ugh! How does Papa put up with him?

"Did you hope it would somehow help with your back?" she asks, referring to the cigarette again.

"No, I had hoped it would help with other matters."

"Such as?"

"Everything," he says, and Amelia knows exactly what he means even though he's acting weird and cryptic. "You didn't have to coerce me into staying, but I appreciate that you've been concerned."

How'd he find out? Well, it doesn't matter now.

"Yeah, I had to. Otherwise, you would've gone to work and dropped in a heap on the unit, and then who would diagnose the patients?"

Dad gives up on the cigarette and puts it out. "I have it under control."

"You know, that's what I thought before I started feeling depressed and suicidal," she counters, and she wishes she could take it back. That was one step too far.

She can feel Dad staring at her through the darkness, and for a long minute, he doesn't say a word. Until finally, he clears his throat and mumbles, "I'm afraid your knack for rebellion and insomnia aren't the only attributes we share."

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

Dad draws in a deep breath and says, "I, uhh, struggled as well...for quite a while."

Oh.

She stands closer to him and wonders if maybe she's dreaming this, but somehow, she's pretty sure she's awake. "What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

Dad slumps forward a little and picks something up from a small table behind him. It's another hot pack. He presses it to his back and murmurs, "I was eighteen. My adolescence was…less than ideal. I was harassed at school and didn't have many friends, and so, I was quite isolated. My home life wasn't much better. Growing up with three elder brothers and a single mother who was often overworked and overwhelmed didn't exactly create a healthy environment, as you can imagine. I was, by all measures, a textbook example of a troubled teen."

He turns over the now useless cigarette in his free hand and sighs as he tosses it into an abandoned ashtray on that little table. It probably hasn't been used in years and just serves as a decoration now. "I…I didn't see a purpose in living anymore. One day after school, I went to my mother's bedroom and overdosed on her doxylamine, which she was taking as a sleep aid. I don't remember exactly how much I took, but it was lethal."

"Oh, my god," Amelia says before she can stop herself. She can't imagine Dad ever doing anything like that, even as a teenager.

"My brother, Alistair, found me. I didn't know he was home…He called for help right away, thankfully. I spent a week in the hospital and then another three weeks in-patient on a psychiatric unit."

"That must've been terrible."

"It was."

"Why didn't you tell me this when…you know?"

Dad shrugs outs of his robe and drapes it over her shoulders, and that's when Amelia realizes she's been shivering. It's warm and makes her feel safe.

"No one wants to hear their parent lecture them about how they've been through something similar. You would have thought I was trying to diminish the importance of your own emotions."

"I wouldn't have thought that."

"Ah, yes, so if during our phone call, I had said, 'Oi, Amelia, when I was a young lad, I was depressed,' and so on, you wouldn't have been the least bit annoyed?"

"Okay, maybe a little."

"Mmm, that's what I thought."

"So, why did you tell me now?"

"I thought you were ready to hear it…I know you may not believe me, but it gets better, truly. Not right away, of course."

Tears pool in her eyes—real tears this time.

Dad hugs her, and although it's just one of the thousands of hugs he has given her over the course of her life, this one feels different—more important. "I love you, and you matter to me. You know that, yes?"

"Yeah," she whispers, and an ugly sob escapes her throat. "I don't want to feel like this anymore…"

He nods sympathetically and presses a kiss into her hair. "I know…Try to get some rest."

She dries her face and gets her breathing under control again. For some odd reason, she feels better. She needed a good cry. "Look who's talking…Be kinder to your back. You heard what the doctor said…And don't smoke anymore! I don't want you getting lung cancer or emphysema."

Dad chuckles. "Okay, love."

Together, they walk back into the house, and she gives him his robe back.

"Do you need help getting up the stairs?" she asks.

"If I made it down, I can make it up."

"I'm not sure that's how it works. "

"We'll find out soon, won't we?" he jokes, but sure enough, he makes it to the top of the staircase without too much trouble. That medication he was given earlier must be kicking in.

Or maybe he just has a strong backbone.

She gets it from someone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Here's the final chapter, everyone (finally, I know)! Thanks for your patience and continuous support. I hope you were able to enjoy this story, and thank you to the anon who requested it. Stay wonderful, and you'll be hearing more from me soon!

* * *

Depression has a way of knowing when to hit you the hardest. It's usually when you're starting to get back up again.

"Be patient and understanding, but if there's a problem, I'm a phone call away," Dad says to Madeline as he's leaving, and Amelia knows she's not supposed to be hearing their conversation, but she can't help eavesdropping. She deserves to know when she's being talked about.

She's not ready for Dad and Papa to leave. They are an emotional crutch she didn't know she needed.

"You guys are coming to my race next week, right?"

"Oui, of course. We wouldn't miss it," Papa says, and Amelia wonders why she hasn't been informed of this upcoming race yet and when Maddie planned to tell her about it. What if she's not invited?

 _No one told you because no one wants you to come._

She knows that voice in the back of her head isn't making any sense again, but it does a lot of damage anyway. The day after Dad and Papa drive off into the distance, Amelia is stuck in the fog yet again, aimlessly wandering through it and trying to fight her way out. She skips breakfast, and then lunch. She doesn't get out of bed. Maddie asks her if she wants to ride Maple or come help her with the horses, but she's not in the mood.

"You're not doing yourself any favors by lying around doing nothing all day," Maddie says.

And Amelia can't stop herself from snapping at her. "Thanks for stating the obvious."

"Don't get upset with me. I'm just trying to help."

"You're not helping. Go to the horses or whatever. You're more interested in them, clearly."

"Amelia, stop. Why are you being like this?"

"You didn't even tell me you're competing next week."

"I didn't want you to feel pressured to have to come."

"You're lying."

Venomous words keep coming to her. Spewing hurtful words takes away some of her own pain, if only for a couple of seconds. She knows she needs to control herself and apologize to Maddie, but why is it that the only way Maddie wants to connect with her is through her horses? Why should Amelia have to take an interest in them on her behalf? Maybe she doesn't care about barrel racing or Maple or Kuma or anything. It's not fun to her anymore. Nothing's fun. Fun is a word that doesn't exist in her vocabulary.

The bed is safe. It's where she can hide under her pillows and block out the rest of the world. No one can hurt her under the warmth of her cotton blanket. She can stay here as long as she needs to. Stay until the world stops turning...until everything stops and there's peace and quiet and—

There's a knock on the bedroom door.

She expects to see a sheepish Madeline come stepping in to apologize or have a heart-to-heart, but instead, it's Gilbert. He's in a dress shirt and a red tie because he must be going off to meet with a client. From the discussions she's overheard between Maddie and him, he's working on a pretty important homicide case, and if he wins, it could really help solidify his reputation as a good criminal defense attorney.

"Hey," he murmurs, staying in the doorway—almost as if he's a little afraid of getting too close because it might set her off.

She manages to sit up and reply, "Hi."

"Maddie says you haven't eaten anything all day..."

"If I eat something now, I'll puke."

"That's not good...Your dad left some kind of medication for you to take if your stomach feels queasy. Want me to bring it for you?"

Amelia shakes her head. It's hard to explain, but part of her is glad she's suffering. She deserves to feel sickness. "No, it's okay."

"I don't think it is."

"I just need some time alone."

Gilbert shuffles from foot to foot uncertainly. "Uhh...Your dad also said you should try taking the anti-depressant you were prescribed if things started getting worse."

"No, I'll pass on that, too."

"But maybe it'll help."

"Yeah, it'll help make me feel suicidal again."

"You don't know that for sure. I mean, obviously, there are side-effects or whatever, but you need to do something to try to feel better, and sometimes the benefits outweigh the risks, right?"

 _That's right. Do something, Amelia._

"Gilbert, I really want to be left alone. Maddie didn't have to send you in here."

"She didn't. I decided to come and talk to you myself," Gilbert reveals, sighing a little as he continues fidgeting in the doorway. Even just watching him is making her anxious.

"I want you to get better, too."

"Thanks..."

"Can I ask you something?"

She doesn't like where this is going. "Okay."

"Do you want to get better?"

The answer should obviously be yes, so why doesn't she say it right away? Why does she have to hesitate? Maybe because she knows that if she gets better, she's going to be expected to go back to school and figure out her own life. She'll have to be independent again, which is a terrifying thought because her independence almost killed her last time.

"I don't know," she mumbles.

Gilbert nods his head, as though that's the answer he anticipated getting. "Okay. Well...Let me know if you need anything."

He can't do anything for her. She needs to handle this on her own terms, or else, her recovery will be meaningless.

And right now, recovery feels like it's nowhere to be found.

* * *

Since it's summer and the kids are out of school, that means Maddie is home 24/7. She won't go back to teaching high school French until September, so in the meantime, it seems that training for races is all she does.

Amelia wants to be happy for her, and now that she knows Maddie is prepping for a race next Friday, she wants to be able to cheer her on and help her in any way she can, but instead, all she can do is sit in her room and brood. She watches Maddie glide around barrels with Kuma from her bedroom window and hates her sister for being so beautiful and put together. She wants her life. She wants this incredible house, a loving husband, and a career. Why is it that Maddie was able to fulfill her dreams so easily and quickly, while Amelia still can't even manage to eat three meals a day and shower?

She knows comparing herself to her sister isn't healthy, but her depression constantly reminds her of how inadequate she is. Soon, all she can feel for Madeline is a sense of loathing. She becomes a symbol for everything Amelia lacks.

But at the same time, Amelia doesn't want to lose her sister over some dumb rivalry—a rivalry she conjured up in her own head. If she keeps distancing herself from Madeline, it's only a matter of time before she starts distancing herself from everyone else again, too, and she can't afford to do that.

When she talks to her therapist over the phone for one of their sessions, she tells all of this to her. She explains her fear of losing her support network and gives voice to every toxic thought that has crossed her mind since she came to the ranch. Talking about it helps her see how irrational she's being and how twisted her perceptions of the people around her have been. Still, functioning remains to be a chore. She goes four days without stepping outdoors, until finally, she convinces herself she has nothing to lose and starts taking the anti-depressants prescribed to her by her psychiatrist.

She tells Maddie and Gilbert that she's been taking this new medication a little too late. They find out the hard way when she randomly starts bursting into tears at regular intervals throughout the day or gets enraged at tiny things like how Gilbert tries to coax her into eating a few of Maddie's blueberry pancakes for breakfast one morning after she already said she was going to settle for some plain cereal. Everything turns into a fight.

Fortunately, as it turns out, these are all normal side-effects, as it can take some time for one's body to transition and react more positively to treatment. Just several days after starting the pills, Amelia begins to feel a little more clear-minded. She's not really better in an emotional sense, but she can get up, brush her teeth, and make her bed at long last, which is at least something.

Maddie is scared of her. Amelia can tell just by the way she avoids looking her in the eyes and how she's always coming up with new ways to skirt around her rather than face her. She stops asking if Amelia wants to come and see the horses. She doesn't say a word unless she absolutely has to.

And for a moment, Amelia realizes her relationship with Maddie has become splintered in the same way her brief friendship with Anya was. Though they are occupying the same house, they're lonely.

The evening before the big race, when Gilbert has yet to return from work and she and Maddie are pretending not to see one another, Amelia reaches her breaking point. She walks into the kitchen as Maddie's preparing dinner, ignores the sound of blood rushing in her ears and the pounding of her heart, and says, loud and clear, "I'm sorry. I love you, Maddie, and I've been a terrible sister lately."

Maddie stops stirring the pasta she's boiling and lets her shoulders roll forward with a heavy sigh. It takes her a minute to accept her apology and turn around, but once she finally does, Amelia can see the crinkles of remorse on her face. "I should be the one apologizing. I guess I had different expectations for what this would be like. I was so excited about you staying at the ranch. I was treating this like it was some sort of vacation or family get-together rather than a time for you to recover and work on your treatment."

"I've just been raining on your parade, and that wasn't fair to you," Amelia assures because she doesn't want Maddie taking the blame for this. Maddie didn't do anything wrong. She's been doing her best, and it's not her fault that she doesn't know how to talk to someone who's depressed because Amelia wouldn't know what to do if she were in her position either.

Still, Maddie shakes her head. "Dad and Papa told me to be patient and compassionate with you, and I wasn't. As soon as things started getting hard, I left you to deal with it on your own, and I shouldn't have done that. I'm supposed to be here for you. Forget racing, and the horses, and everything else. You're my sister, and you matter to me more than anything. I should be devoting time to helping you, not training with Kuma and Maple."

"You shouldn't have to give up everything you've worked for just for me," Amelia argues.

"I should because that's what you do for family," Maddie whispers back, and it's hard not to hear the emotion in her voice. "I've been so caught up in my own world lately...I'm not usually like this, and I don't know why I haven't been able to support you better or—"

Amelia can't listen to this any longer. She snatches Maddie up into a hug and squeezes her. "I'm not an easy person to help," she says with a dark laugh. "I know I made you feel like everything you've been doing has been wrong or that you haven't taken my feelings into consideration, but none of that's true. Depression makes you think crazy thoughts and keeps people from getting close enough to help you. So, please don't blame yourself. I can't stand to see you sad. I can be sad enough for both of us."

Maddie keeps shaking her head, but there's also a small smile on her lips. "I don't want to see you sad either."

"I'm working on it. I promise…Now, come on, let's eat because I'm actually hungry for once, and then we've gotta wake up bright and early for your race tomorrow."

"You don't have to feel obligated to go if you're not feeling well."

"Are you kidding me? Of course, I'm going," Amelia says with a bright grin. "I need to be there for my sister because she's amazing, and I know she's going to do great. Plus, I have to make sure Papa doesn't embarrass you and Dad doesn't have a heart attack."

Maddie laughs, and it's the soft, pleasant laugh Amelia has been waiting to hear over the past few days. "You're right. I need you there."

 _Need._

That's the word Amelia has been waiting to hear. It means she has a purpose and value, even if the reasons are tiny.

"I won't let you down, sis."

* * *

" _Why did it have to be horses? Why not dogs? She could have trained them to jump through hoops, and it would have been a much safer alternative to this."_

 _"But mon cher, she's a natural at it."_

 _"She could have been a natural at anything else."_

Amelia can't stop the smile that spreads across her lips as she climbs up the steps of the outdoor stadium where today's races are being held. She thought she might have some trouble finding her parents in the ocean of people in the audience, but now she realizes she shouldn't have worried.

"There you guys are! I could hear you bickering from a mile away," she says cheerfully as she gives them a hug and sits in the seat between them—best to keep them separated. It's her job to make sure they behave themselves and don't get kicked out midway into the races.

"You look well," Dad is quick to note. "How are you?"

"I ate breakfast and lunch today, so I'll consider that my achievement of the week. How's your back? Papa told me you've actually been going to physical therapy. I find that hard to believe."

"I'm happy to hear your appetite is improving, and yes, it's true. I'd rather not discuss it while there are so many witnesses around though," he jokes, "but it's been better, thank you."

Amelia nods and decides to switch subjects because if she makes too big of a deal out of Dad actually seeking treatment, he's likely to stop going. "So, are you guys excited to see Maddie race again? It's been a while, huh?"

"Excited isn't among the emotions I'm feeling at the moment," Dad grumbles.

From Amelia's left, Papa snorts with laughter and says, "Arthur, she's been doing this for years. Doesn't that reassure you at all?"

"No," Dad replies without hesitation. "Accidents can happen even to professionals."

Papa sighs. "Yes, but you can't always assume the worst-case scenario is going to happen. Remember how panicked you were when we drove Madeline to her first horseback riding lesson when she was nine?"

"Please, don't remind me. That was the beginning of this long nightmare."

"You're so dramatic," Papa tuts. "Nothing happened even though you were convinced she was going to injure herself."

"And she did injure herself no more than three or four lessons later! She fractured her left arm!"

"It wasn't as terrible as you're making it out to be. Every athlete experiences an injury at some point in their career."

"Which is precisely why I hoped my daughters would never become athletes, but look where we are now," Dad growls, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought that first incident would have deterred her somewhat, but that was wishful thinking on my part."

Amelia remembers Maddie's first fall, too. One minute, she was laughing and sprinting across the riding pen, and in the span of just a few seconds, the young mare she was handling got spooked by a large bird and threw her out of the saddle. Maddie's hands grappled for the reign, and she managed to half-catch herself and at least slowed her descent. Still, it wasn't pretty.

Fortunately, she had her riding helmet on. She landed with a horrific thump and curled up into a tight ball as her instructor focused on getting the horse calm again before she could harm Maddie any further.

Dad wasn't there to see it with his own eyes. Amelia's fairly sure he was out running errands, which was probably for the best because had he been there, he might have never let Maddie near a horse again.

She vividly recalls Papa lifting a sobbing Maddie into his arms and setting her in the back of the car. He drove well above the speed limit to get home, and because he was preoccupied with zipping down the highway, he entrusted Amelia with the delicate task of delivering the bad news to Dad.

Of course, that didn't go over so well…

"She fell?" Dad had exclaimed hysterically over the phone, making Amelia's right ear hurt. "Did she hit her head? Injure her spine? Can she walk? Is she responsive? Is she bleeding? I knew this would lead to disaster. I look forward to hearing what your papa has to say about this. I told him this would happen."

Before they could even make it to the front door—Dad had quickly whisked Maddie into his own arms and laid her down across the living room couch, where he was able to take stock of her injuries. Her left arm had swelled up considerably like a balloon, and Dad declared that they would be taking her to the ER.

Many tears were shed on Maddie's part, but Amelia got her to smile after asking Maddie's doctor if she could get a purple cast—her favorite color. And so, sure enough, Maddie was sent back home with a plaster cast in a lovely shade of lavender. Not to brag, but Amelia got to be the first one to sign it. She wrote, _"Amelia was here,"_ and drew a rocket ship going up to the moon.

Papa signed it as well with _"Get well soon, ma cherie. Love, Papa,"_ before adding a bunch of hearts and flowers.

And once Dad had finally finished lecturing Papa and Maddie, he scribbled on the cast as well by doodling a bunch of little bones in a row and adding a caption that read, " _One down, 205 to go. Lots of love, Dad."_

From that point on, Maddie proudly flaunted her cast as a well-earned battle wound, and as soon as her arm has fully healed, she began pestering Dad and Papa to let her go horseback riding again.

And really, by that point, there was no stopping her.

Thus, that's how they ended up here, in this stadium, waiting to see Maddie prove to them yet again what a good barrel racer she is and why no one can stop her once she sets her mind on something. She's tough—there's no doubt about it.

"Hey! What'd I miss?"

Gilbert comes jogging up the steps and plops into the empty seat on Dad's right, armed with food—hotdogs, chips, chocolate, and, most importantly, beer. He hands Amelia a hotdog and offers to get Dad and Papa some as well, but they both decline. Papa's not a big fan of fast food in general because he believes food should be prepared with great care and time, and Dad's just paranoid about getting clogged arteries since he became middle-aged.

"In that case, does anyone want beer? You can't go wrong with one beer," Gilbert suggests instead, tossing a handful of chips into his mouth. His nose and cheeks are getting a little sunburnt from being outdoors. He probably didn't have the foresight to put on sunblock.

"I'm on meds, so I can't, but thanks," Amelia says before snatching a packet of ketchup from the plastic bag in Gilbert's lap.

"Oh, right, I forgot…Arthur? Francis?"

Papa takes him up on the offer this time, and Dad almost does, too, until Papa reaches across Amelia and swats his shoulder firmly. "You took pain medication just an hour ago!"

Dad rolls his eyes. "One drink won't kill me. How else am I going to endure this agony?"

"It's never just one drink with you. You're not having anything, and that's that," Papa declares, and Gilbert seems to agree.

Amelia laughs and turns to look at Dad with a sympathetic smile. "We'll be the designated drivers tonight."

It occurs to her that this is the first time she's been to an outdoor event like this in a while. Normally, this might've given her anxiety, but being here with family makes it easier, and she doesn't feel nervous or overwhelmed. Actually, she thinks she might be having _**fun**_ , but it's hard for her to say for sure. She was under the impression that she had completely lost her ability to experience it.

A hush washes over the crowd once Gilbert comes back with Papa's beer, a signal that the race is about to begin. They go through the usual formalities and introductions—an overly peppy announcer thanks everyone for coming out and gives some basic safety information about how to exit the stadium in case of an emergency, and then everyone has to stand for the national anthem before the first racer finally comes out.

Amelia's afraid to blink lest she misses any of the action. It's expected that each competitor will finish in under twenty seconds, and so, it's hard to look away for even a moment because that single moment could make all of the difference.

Then again, Amelia doesn't really care about the other competitors. She's here solely for Maddie.

It appears Maddie's seventh in the line-up out of twenty people. Both the third and fifth racers run into hiccups and nearly fall off of their horses. Seeing them stumble suddenly makes Amelia all too aware of how possible it is that Maddie could go through the same thing.

She looks over at Dad, and sure enough, he's tapping his foot anxiously and struggling to decide if he should look away or keep staring at the other competitors.

"She'll be okay," Amelia tells him with a shaky smile. "She's practiced a million times, and Kuma is really well-trained."

Dad rubs his hands over his eyes and nods. "I hope you're right."

The sixth racer plays it safe and finishes within a solid seventeen seconds.

And then, it's Maddie's turn. Amelia's heart starts pounding against her ribcage, and she grips the edge of her seat.

" _Madeline Beilschmidt_ ," the announcer booms over the speakers.

"WOOO! GO MADDIE!" Gilbert whoops, standing up and waving his hand at her. "YOU'VE GOT THIS! LEAVE THEM IN THE DUST, SWEETIE!"

Amelia manages a little laugh, and that's when she feels Dad's hand grabbing hers for moral support. Papa goes oddly quiet, and they all have their eyes glued to Maddie and Kuma now, adrenaline pumping through their veins.

 _1…2…3!_

She's off, and Amelia feels her throat constrict with worry. She's not sure what kind of timing Maddie is aiming for, but as long as she has a clean race, that's what's most important right?

Kuma circles the first barrel smoothly, gliding around it and making it look like the easiest thing in the world. The second turn is just as graceful, and then, on the last barrel, he hesitates for just a fraction of a second before twirling around it and bolting to the finish.

"15 point six seconds!" the announcer exclaims.

Amelia has to look at Gilbert for confirmation to be sure that's good, and when he starts freaking out and celebrating, she allows her face to split into a grin and starts cheering and huzzahing as well.

Dad releases her hand and slumps against his seat. "I'm relieved it's over."

Papa, meanwhile, is snapping pictures with his phone and is beside himself with pride. Now, all that's left to do is see how well the remaining thirteen other racers do so they can know where Maddie is in the rankings.

She holds first place on the leaderboard for a good while, until number seventeen finishes two seconds earlier than her and knocks her down to second place, which is where she stays until all is said and done.

And well, second place is pretty incredible, in Amelia's opinion. It's definitely worth celebrating, especially since this was a regional race against competitors from various states. So, Maddie earns herself a silver medal, and gets showered with hugs and praises as soon as they head down to congratulate her and Kumajirou.

"You were amazing! You're too cool to be my sister," Amelia says when she's able to throw her arms around Maddie's shoulders and lock her in a bear hug.

"Kuma did all of the work," Maddie insists, but there's a glimmer of pride and joy in her eyes. "Thank you guys for coming to watch me. I felt way more confident knowing you were all here."

"That's our job!" Papa says.

Gilbert nods and adds, "Yeah, you don't ever need to thank us."

"Congratulations, poppet. You've earned it," Dad jumps in, too, ruffling Maddie's hair.

Maddie's cheeks flush pink, and she takes the silver medal off. After taking a good look at it, she slips it around Amelia's neck instead.

"This one is for you," Maddie decides.

"Maddie, don't be crazy. You worked for this," Amelia protests before making an attempt to take it off, but Maddie doesn't let her.

"No, keep it. I've been thinking about you over the past few days, and you were my motivation for this race, so I want you to have it. Please…"

"I can't accept this."

"Yes, you can. It's your victory, too, okay?"

Amelia sighs, and she looks around to see what Dad, Papa, and Gilbert think about this, but they don't interrupt or make any comments. They're just as stunned as she is.

"Thank you," she says, at last, accepting it.

She's sure of it now—this is what fun is supposed to be like. And the warm, bubbly feeling in her gut?

That's happiness.

* * *

A week after the big race, Maddie takes her out for a "ladies' day."

Maddie drives into town and they go out to be pampered and act like princesses for a day. Their first stop is at the spa, where Amelia gets her first facial ever and sits in a mud bath until all of the stress and heavy exhaustion is pulled out of her bones. She starts to feel like she might be okay again—normal, even.

Then, it's time for hair and nails. She doesn't do much with her hair—just gets a trim—but she looks and feels refreshed. Her manicure and pedicure end up being a shimmery sky blue, and as she's waiting for her nails to dry under the purple UV lights, she looks at herself in the mirror hanging from one of the walls of the salon and feels pretty for the first time all year. She can feel beauty radiating like an aura around her, and she realizes she no longer feels the need to compare herself to Maddie or to worry about what her next steps are going to be in life—all of that suddenly seems unimportant. She'll figure it out in due time, and it's okay not to know everything just yet, right?

To finish off their day, they go on a short shopping spree and Amelia picks out a bunch of new clothes for the fall, considering they're approaching the final several days of summer. She can't believe how quickly time has passed.

It feels like she left Los Angeles ages ago.

Unfortunately, the end of summer also means Maddie will be going back to work soon at the local high school she teaches at, and so Amelia concludes that it's probably time for her to head back to the city with Dad and Papa. Leaving isn't going to be easy, but it's a necessary next step. If everything goes well, maybe she can enroll in school again for the spring semester. She's not sure what she'd be interested in studying just yet, but she can dabble in some classes just to get some credits and see if an opportunity presents itself.

"Promise to visit more often?" Maddie asks her on the drive back to the ranch.

"I'll try."

"And if you're ever feeling bad again, you know you can always call me to talk, right?"

"I know. Thanks, Maddie. You've been awesome. I promise not to shut everyone out of my life again. I've learned my lesson. It's going to take some more time before I get back on track, but I really think things are looking up."

"That's so good to hear."

Amelia nods and smiles. She's been doing that a lot lately—smiling.

"Yeah, things are going to be all right, and I have you, Gilbert, and Dad and Papa to make sure of that."

"And yourself," Maddie notes. "You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

Amelia purses her lips and leans her head on the window. "Yeah, maybe you're right…"

She doesn't have quite that much confidence in herself just yet.

* * *

Once she pinkie-promises Gilbert and Maddie that she'll see them, at the latest, by Thanksgiving, it's officially time for her to go home. Dad drives, and though he and Papa get into a brief quarrel over the directions provided to them by their GPS, the trip goes well overall. The relaxing, scenic drive gives Amelia a chance to think about her future plans, and she bears in mind that although things have been better for now, it's entirely possible for her to start slipping again. Recovery isn't a single process with an exact end. It's the usual rollercoaster of ups and downs.

But, she thinks she has a better understanding of how to cope with those downturns now. She's able to catch her dark thoughts more easily, and she can convince herself not to listen to the cynical voice in the back of her head. She doesn't always succeed, of course, but she's succeeding more than she used to.

When they get home that night and she has unpacked most of her things, she sits on the edge of her bed with her legs crossed underneath her and figures it's about time she made a necessary phone call. She scrolls to the top of her list of contacts, stares at the number for a long while, and finally presses it before she can second guess herself.

"Hello?" she hears a confused voice on the other line ask.

"Hey…Anya, it's me, Amelia. I thought I'd check in. How are things going?"

"Amelia? How are things going with _you_? Everything's good here."

"I'm all right…I've been feeling a lot better lately, but I don't want to talk about depression. I just want to talk about anything—like f-friends do."

"Friends?"

"Yeah, unless you don't—"

"I thought we already were friends," Anya says, and Amelia can hear the teasing smile in her voice. "A lot has happened since you left—a lot of drama, that is. Do you want to hear about it?"

"Of course, I do! Lay it on me, Anya. I'm all ears."

By the time they're done talking it's well past midnight, and Amelia has all but lost her voice, but that's okay. This is good.

She could use a friend.

* * *

Her therapist gives her an odd assignment one week. She wants her to write a letter to herself—to the Amelia who was back in Los Angeles and on the verge of deciding that she was going to end her own life.

She goes through multiple drafts and tosses them all out because they sound generic. What is she supposed to tell herself? That life is still worth living? That sounds cheesy and doesn't have any real heart in it. Anyone could say that. She needs to write something that she might actually have been willing to listen to.

She thinks back to the night Dad shared his own experiences with her and tries to imagine what he might write to himself. He'd probably have a lot to say, but that's because there's a greater distance between where he was and where he is now compared to Amelia. Though her mindset has changed a lot over the course of a few months, her life isn't really all that different.

She starts again. This time, she doesn't let herself cross anything out…

…That's better.

"Amelia!" Papa calls from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"

"Coming!"

She puts down her pen, takes one more look at what she has written, and decides it'll have to do. This is the opposite of a suicide letter. It's a choosing to live letter.

And she wants to live.

* * *

 _Dear Amelia,_

 _I don't know what to tell you or how to make you listen. You're dealing with what I've already been through, and I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I_ _ **did**_ _make it through, even though you didn't think I would. Wherever you're at, it's not the end. It may feel like nothing's left and everything was all a waste, but that's not true. It's hard to see what's ahead of you when you're stuck in that fog. I know that better than anyone else. Just because you can't find the good in things anymore, doesn't mean good things aren't out there._

 _You still have a family that loves you. You have your health. You have a roof over your head, clean water to drink, and food to eat. You have your smile and your laughter. You don't have wrinkles under your eyes yet. You can go out and feel the wind in your hair. You can breathe in and out. You can walk and go wherever your feet take you. You can meet beautiful people with beautiful hearts. You can fall in love. You can take a hot shower after a long day and rest your head on your pillow. You can drink coffee, and ask people about their day, and actually care about what they have to say._

 _Your life is so much more than what you think it is. If you let it stop now, you're going to miss out on the rest of your story. You'll never know what happens next. Everything will just be one big "what if?"_

 _I don't know if there's such a thing as fate or if every person is brought into the world for a reason. I can't promise you that, but I can promise you that there are people around you who love you and need you, and they're going to be there for you when things get tough. Don't be afraid of accepting their help. You matter to them, and that's got to be worth something, right? You have a purpose, even if you're not sure what that purpose is or how big it's gonna become._

 _Maybe you'll have kids. Maybe you won't. Maybe you'll live in the city. Maybe you won't. Maybe you'll hop in a car and take a road trip across the country. Maybe you'll travel the world. Maybe you'll make some amazing friends that you'll stay close to for years and years. Maybe you'll find your dream job. Maybe you'll be happy no matter where you end up._

 _Life is hard, don't get me wrong. It's probably not going to get any easier, but we keep choosing to get up every day is because it has its beautiful, redeeming moments, too. Sometimes, it's so beautiful you want to cry, and other times, it's terrible and will put you through a lot of pain, but that's okay. You can learn from the pain. You can choose to grow stronger because of it or you can give up._

 _I hope you grow stronger._

 _Love,_

 _Future Amelia_


End file.
